Father Cathal Sair held the dagger in his hand. It was made of a dark metal or perhaps even stone that seemed to eat the light that touched it; only at very certain angles did it glint, giving a view of itself as something more than a solid shadow.

"The infinite callous cold calls to us all," he spoke softly, reverently.

Yet all present heard his words, hung on them.

Even Pirra, it seemed to Apollonia.

The Dessei's eyes, already much larger than a human's, were open to their widest, fixed on the man.

"In its frozen, unfeeling, endless depths the Dark sees Our worth . . . sees that we are wanting, lacking true form and purpose. It gives us a finality that befits our stature," Sair said.

His eyes lowered from the knife, beads of sweat on his skin sparkling in the lights of the glowing spheres. His eyes moved across them all.

Apollonia felt them linger on her, felt a . . . a longing, in them. For her.

It pulled at her, and she leaned forward in her seat. So did others, and for a moment she felt a flicker of jealousy; she was the special one here. She was always the special one, it's why people loved her. Why they tolerated her. Why they hated her.

"Yet there is a deeper mercy for us. While we are nothing in the sight of the Dark, to the Elder Ones, the true rulers of the universe, we are the Pale Reflection."

Slowly, he lowered his hand, his eyes moving again to Apollonia.

She felt her heart race. The crowd turned, all together in a disturbing act of synchronicity, to look at her. They waited.

Cathal's fingers curled slowly, beckoning her.

Apollonia did not realize she rose, but she found herself halfway down the aisle. Then she found herself on the stage.

"Lay yourself down to rest," Cathal said to her softly. There was love in his voice, she realized.

He did not have to say the words.

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Neither did she.

She was laying on her back then, looking up at him. Sadness rent his face, and she smiled. "Why are you sad?" she asked.

"It will be over soon, Apollonia," he said, so softly.

She felt something hit her cheek, reached up a hand. It was wet. With a tear?

"In the ancient times, the Great Ones were all. All was of their flesh and their will."

Four men appeared; they were of average appearance, their faces calm. All wore very simple, light-blue robes, and two held large metal censers, suspended by brass chains from highly decorated poles.

The censers looked, like the altar, to be ancient. Pirra's unease grew, but she found she could barely even contemplate moving.

It was like when she was half-asleep and aware of it; a part of her could feel the desire to slip deeper, to fall back into slumber. But she fought it, almost rocking back and forth, her heart fluttering faster as she tried to force her body and mind to move.

Smoke began to pour from the censers. It smelled strangely, almost making her want to cough.

But it was soothing, too.

She felt herself going slack. Her mind, drifting into that dream state where she was still aware - but that was all. Unable to act.

"In the darkness the Great Ones first gave birth to light and created, from the shapeless, forms for life to inhabit," Sair said. He was looking at Apollonia, his words seemingly for her alone.

Next to her, two of the men drew back the sheets on the other altars. These, too, were of ancient, crumbling stone, but indented, like rectangular bowls.

The men crawled inside, crossing their arms.

"Our forms are sacred to this day," Sair breathed, stepping over to stand above one of the men. "In the night of the universe they will remain sacred."

The wickedly black knife in his hand thrust down, into the throat of the man. He coughed, once, blood splattering his lips. But otherwise he remained still. His blood seeping from his body slowly.

"And to the darkness we shall return," Sair said.

He moved and slashed again, cutting the other man's throat.

"Insignificant yet mighty. Tiny, and yet beloved."

Pirra felt the horror of seeing these men die; she did not know who they were, but Father Sair had just murdered them.

Yet no matter how much she knew she should spring up, seek help - she could not make herself move.

The blood pooling around the two men began to crawl up the sides of the bowls. It bridged the gap between the altars, squirming and flowing through the air, moving towards Apollonia.

She was still, staring up at Sair. A look of . . . confusion, or possibly doubt, appeared on her face, but only for a moment.

Father Sair reached down, stroking a bloody hand across her cheek. He said something, quietly, but the words were not audible.

Apollonia suddenly spasmed, her eyes rolling back into her head, her entire body convulsing. Something formless, invisible, held her wrists and ankles to the altar, and she did not fall, but only continued to writhe, gasping for air.

Wanting to scream, but unable.